


drunk on you

by I_Will_Think_About_It_Later



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drunkenness, Fluff, Humour, M/M, More like Attempt at Mature Content, Post-Anime, Yuuri POV, lol idk, slightly mature content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 10:46:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9487802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Will_Think_About_It_Later/pseuds/I_Will_Think_About_It_Later
Summary: "He can’t count the number of times they’ve been like this, probably because usually, he’s drunk too.Today, he’s sober, and he’s acutely aware of the way Viktor starts practically trying to burrow into his skin, clutching at his clothes, digging fingers into his hair – whispering, heady and intoxicated, into his ears."





	

**Author's Note:**

> *tries to write R18 stuff*
> 
> *can't*
> 
> *tries to plot*
> 
> *can't*
> 
> basically please excuse my choice of catharsis in handling my YOI feels

It’s not exactly a _secret_ , how handsy Viktor can get.

You’d only have to look at the possibly inexhaustible wealth of documented evidence archived in Tumblr blogs and Twitter and circulated round every forum and video host on the internet by the rabid fangirls and hopeless romantics, if you ever wanted to verify.

The point is, Viktor is incredibly tactile. Viktor squeezes Yuuri when he’s overwhelmed by his performances, hugs him tight for _Good luck!_ and _Well done!_ and _It’s okay, we’ll do better next time_ and _I couldn’t look away from you, you’re so beautiful._ He’s not shy. Yuuri _is_ , but after a while, he’d started to get over the shellshock and embrace the giddy elation of being so unconditionally appreciated instead.

The thing is, he’s got another little quirk. An insatiable thirst, let’s say.

For alcohol.

And a propensity to drink too _much_ of it.

And when he does, his touchy-feely behaviour amplifies. Tenfold.

“Listen, you perverted old man,” Yurio is hissing, practically foaming at the mouth – his face is lined with way more creases than anyone as young of him should have, but considering the circumstances, Yuuri doesn’t know if he can blame him, “If you’re gonna molest your boyfriend, _get a fucking room._ ”

Viktor, pristinely cut blazer off and discarded who-knows-where, buttons of his shirt progressively undoing themselves when no one’s looking, pouts _hard._ “I’m not _molesting_ him, I’m just hugging.”

He actually sounds offended that Yurio’d suggest such a thing – it might even sound convincing, were it not for the fact that he is, effectively, hanging half out of his seat at the fancy table arrangement the hotel management’d put together in honour of the event’s participants, practically draped all over Yuuri.

It’s not the _first_ time Viktor’s been breaking every rule of the personal space handbook around Yuuri, but it’s definitely one of those times he’s doing it in front of a full, captive audience.

“Oh, I dunno,” is what Chris chips in – there’s a suggestive drawl to his voice that makes Yuuri’s skin crawl a bit, “I can’t say I’m not enjoying the show.”

Yuuri’s pretty sure there’s enough blood rushing to his head right now for his skull to combust.

The idea almost sounds appealing.

“Viktor, maybe we should – ah, maybe we should go back to our room, yeah?” he tries to murmur, in as covert an undertone as can be managed when you’re in close proximity to half a dozen people.

Viktor, clearly, doesn’t see the need for discretion. “ _Ohhh_ ,” he breathes, dragging his fingers over the back of Yuuri’s neck, a heated glint thawing the icy-blue of his eyes, “And what do you plan on doing with me when we get there?”

He punctuates the question with a scrape of his fingernails at the base of his neck, and Yuuri lets out a yelp – almost liquefies on the spot.

“Oh my _God_ ,” Yurio groans from across the table – he’s bright red, having trouble keeping his eyes open, physically vibrating with the suppressed instincts of one who just wants to jump up and bolt away. Yuuri can relate.

“This – he,” Yuuri stammers, trying to fend off the wiggling, grappling mass of limbs that is Viktor – at least he’s not throwing his clothes off, he tells himself. Yet. “He’s…ah. I’m really sorry, he’s just a bit tipsy…he doesn’t know what he’s doing – “

Yurio silences him with a withering look. “Clearly another reason you two are practically _made_ for each other,” he snarks, and Yuuri gulps, throat dry, cheeks aflame, and brain intensely regretful he’d turned down the waiting staff’s repeated efforts to pour him a drink too.

It’s going to be a long night.

***

“I’m home,” he calls, more out of habit, really, than anything else – it’s late, and Viktor’s likely asleep. But the phrase makes the whole process of making his way into Viktor’s home using the spare keys he’s now got linked to a doggy-bone keychain a little less intrusive – a little more like he belongs.

He’s toeing his way out of his shoes when he’s nearly given a heartattack by a speeding body of silver and beige.

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor keens, and Yuuri’s frantically confused brain registers a whiff of what is unmistakeably alcohol before he’s engulfed in reaching arms – he angles his head just enough to look out the hall in the direction of the living room, and yup, sure enough, there are more empty beer cans lying around there on the table and by the carpet than he cares to count, “Something terrible happened!”

Even though Yuuri’s by now used to the uptick of Viktor’s capacity for dramatics when he’s drunk, it still spikes his alarm. “What? What happened? Are you hurt? Is Makkachin hurt?”

“No, no,” Viktor _whimpers_ , and Yuuri’s blood runs cold because _Is he crying_? He leans down to verify and his heart stops, goes stock skill against his ribs, because _Yes. Yes, he is._ The tears have made patchy streaks down his pale skin, caught into the fine hairs of his lashes. His eyes are red, the corners rubbed raw.

“Viktor,” Yuuri cups Viktor’s face in both of his, curses the fact that he’d not pulled his gloves off first, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I – “ the older man quavers out a breath, inhales shakily, Yuuri all the while thinking he’s going to fracture something just from the suspense, “I think I found a bald spot.”

Silence.

More silence.

More.

“You…what?”

Viktor positively wails. “A _bald_ spot. I’m losing all my hair! Now I’m _really_ going to be an old geezer!”

Yuuri’s first instinct is to laugh. Snigger, more like. Completely cave to the hysterics clawing their way up through him, driving away the short-lived panic he’d just experienced.

Seeing how utterly _devastated_ Viktor looks, as though he’d just lost a dear friend, or been told that Yuuri doesn’t plan to skate ever again, Yuuri doesn’t think that would be much appreciated.

Instead he coaxes Viktor into the living room, makes him sit down, offers as many comforting, reassuring words as he can which finally culminate in an offer to comb through his hair and confirm whether Viktor is, indeed, losing all his hair.

Despite Yuuri’s assurances – _Your head looks_ fine _, Viktor_ , _I promise, there are NO bald spots, I’ll take pictures if you want_ – Viktor sniffles, peers at him, forlorn and watery-eyed.

“It’s all Yurio’s fault,” he gripes, blindly reaching for a beer can; Yuuri pretends as though he misreads the action, and takes it in his instead. Thankfully, Viktor chooses to just squeeze his fingers back. “He’s always cursing me about how I’m not as young as I used to be and if I’m not careful I – “

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Viktor,” Yuuri interrupts – it’s hard, _really_ hard, to say it with a straight face, but what kind of a person would he be if he laughed in the face of his fiancé’s genuine distress at the mere concept of his hair falling out? “And besides, you have nothing to worry about, see?” He brandishes the multiple pictures he’d snapped of Viktor’s crown, at different angles, so he can verify.

Viktor tearily thumbs through the photos, counter-intuitive in how sceptical he is to trust their evidence. “Yuuri,” he mumbles, still sounding _pretty_ depressed, “Will you hate how I look when I don’t have hair?”

It’s laughable suggestion. His lungs are about to give out. “Of course I won’t.”

“Will you still love me, when I’m not young and don’t have hair?”

“I don’t think that’s how the song goes,” Yuuri quips – the smile’s dancing, teasing and fond, around his lips now. He can’t help it.

Viktor doesn’t get the joke. “ _Will_ you?” he demands, with surprising tenacity for a person drunk out of their mind and clearly in the throes of an existential crisis.

Yuuri sighs. He pulls off his gloves before he cups Viktor’s face this time, gentle. Adoring. “My love for you has nothing to do with how much hair you have on your head, dummy,” he hums, running through the words because, okay, yes, they’re pretty much getting married at some point, but it’s still embarrassing saying these things, even _if_ it’s to a person who’d just been sobbing their heart out because of an imaginary receding hairline. He knocks their foreheads together, so their eyes are level, regardless. “So you better stop thinking about stupid things.”

He sees the touched, tempered light glowing in Viktor’s eye – they’re wide and so _blue_ , like the sky, like the clearest of seas, as pretty as snow. Viktor hums a surprisingly submissive, _Okay_ , and huddles closer.

They spend the next couple of minutes cuddling and discussing, at Viktor’s behest, whether hair can be insured and if grafts are expensive.

 

***

He can’t count the number of times they’ve been like this.

Stumbling through hallways and lifts, hesitating because they can’t remember which hotel they’re in this time, what floor they’d checked in to; fumbling for keycards in pockets that seem to multiply in clothes they’ve owned for ages, bursting in through the door and giggling, delirious, hushed, at the ridiculous amount of noise they’re making.

He can’t count the number of times they’ve been like this, probably because usually, he’s drunk too.

Today, he’s sober, and he’s acutely aware of the way Viktor starts practically trying to burrow into his skin, clutching at his clothes, digging fingers into his hair – whispering, heady and intoxicated, into his ears.

“Yuuri – _Yuuri_ – “

“Viktor, you’re drunk,” is the clever thing Yuuri manages to come up with – in his defence, it’s difficult to string coherent sentences when Viktor is trying to strip you in the hall of his home, impeding progress, thumping them into walls and furniture every time Yuuri tries to manoeuvre them in the general direction of the bedroom, “You need to get to bed, you need to take something to help you sleep – “

“But I don’t want _sleep_ ,” is what his fiancé retorts – whines, really, keening and pitchy and beseeching, Yuuri catching a flash of sharp blue, the ocean under a summer sun, clearer than it should be, before he’s entirely distracted by the long fingers inching into the tight and practically useless pockets of his skinny jeans, “I want _you_.”

It startles a laugh out of Yuuri, a surprised, slightly breathless laugh, because yeah, this isn’t the first time Vitkor’s said something along similar lines to him, but it gets him anyway.

“Come on,” he cajoles, instead, using all the flexibility and deftness he possesses to wriggle out of Viktor’s reaching, grasping hands, just enough to keep him at arm’s length and guide him to bedroom, hand against his wrist.

“Hurry, _hurry_ ,” Viktor murmurs behind him, and Yuuri gulps, glad his face isn’t visible – he’s not sure if sobriety is a blessing or a curse when he has to contend with the desperate urgency to Viktor’s pleas. At least, if he’d been inebriated too, he could have just given in to the raw desire inside of him so keen to reciprocate, without any of the guilt.

“Look, Viktor, we have a flight tomorrow, and you can’t be hungover or sleep-deprived,” he says, the voice of reason, brisk and business-like – it still feels odd, to play the sensible one, but Yuuri’s gotta try and compensate, “You have – _oofh!_ ”

His words are cut off – knocked out of him really – by the impact of a fully-grown Russian pro-skater bodily colliding with him, tumbling the two of them into the mattress, a soft fall that still leaves Yuuri winded, and pinned to the bed.

“Viktor - !”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor groans, breathy and hoarse and _dark_ , needy and commanding, a haunting, dangerously alluring contradiction. He nuzzles into Yuuri’s neck, his hands span down his sides, grabbing and releasing handfuls of fabric, blindly hunting for an opening, for _access_ – he wriggles, and Yuuri feels heat and hardness seep through Viktor into himself and his eyes almost roll back into his head.

“Viktor, hey – are you list –“

“ _Please_ – “

“Did you not hear what I jus – “ Lips, brutal and silencing, clamp over his, and it’s graceless, not like the loving pecks or slowly sensual kisses they usually share – this is fuelled by something darker and more primal, more primitive, and it tastes like hunger and alcohol.

And Yuuri’d stayed away from the champagne flutes at the restaurant they’d dined at and the convenience store’s discount deal for a six-pack of beer, but it takes just this taste, a tongue sneaking past his lips and laying stake over his own, for him to completely lose his senses.

Viktor probably senses his compliance, senses his defences crumble, and his movements become slower, paced and _deliberate_ – there’s a hand kneading at his hip, there’s another crawling past the hem of his shirt, rubbing teasing circles along his sides; his mouth shifts away and dives back in, and steals Yuuri’s breath and his words and his soul out of his mouth, sly and seductive.

When he retreats, just a little – just enough to nose into his nape again, and pepper wet, sucking kisses – Yuuri tries to wade through the white noise; tries to piece his senses back together. “A-are you _actually_ drunk, or – ?”

His suspicions abate a bit when the question gets him a thoroughly boyish giggle against his neck – it’s a weirdly innocent sort of sound to hear, from a guy grinding, hot and heavy, against his thigh. It sparks a little perspective into Yuuri’s jumbled head.

“Viktor – Viktor, seriously,” he cranes his neck away from Viktor’s questing mouth, planting his palms and pushing, trying to get some leverage, “ _Listen_. We have a _morning flight_ , a press conference literally _two hours_ after that, and – “

The solid mass of person Yuuri’d been struggling against suddenly gives – Viktor sweeps up, and cold air swooshes in to take up the space he’d been in – Yuuri hates to admit it, but he misses the contact already. Biting his lip, glasses askew from the tackle that’d landed him on the bed, he has to squint to bring Viktor into focus.

Viktor, who’s frowning down at him, brilliant blue eyes luminous and – confused.

“Don’t you want me?” is what he asks, perplexed and almost _hurt_ , and Yuuri’s basically losing his mind.

It takes a second for him to jumpstart his vocal chords, a second more to get them to climb up his throat and sound themselves out. “I – um, I – Viktor, you _know_ I do, I – “

But that’s evidently all Viktor’d been looking to hear, because he nods. And gives him that angelic, blissed out smile Yuuri’s been dazzled by, innumerable times – the broad, slightly goofy smile that’s a sure sign Viktor is completely and utterly intoxicated. “Yay!” And he adds, as though he’s talking about katsudon or sight-seeing or candy, “I want you too!”

With that, he swoops for Yuuri again, getting a yelp out of him, and the next thing he’s conscious of is Viktor’s hands going round his back, curling into the hem of his shirt and pulling up, and Yuuri _moans_ , can’t _help_ it, because Viktor’s nails _drag_ against Yuuri’s back, his skin, as the shirt travels up, up, and _off_ , and the friction is almost reverent compared to the drugged humping he’d been subjected to just moments before, but for every point of contact against bare skin, there’s a sliver of volatile electricity coursing through his veins, and in the end, does it even _matter_ that he’d abstained from the liquor? Does it even _matter_ whether he has his wits around him or not?

Viktor doesn’t even have to _try_ to completely unravel him, and sometimes it _kills_ Yuuri.

It kills Yuuri, and it undoes his tenuous resistance, and it makes him hum and buzz and come alive under Viktor’s burning touches, scorching through his better judgment, making his pulse jackrabbit until his entire body’s alive with heat and goosebumps, his blood is rushing, in his ears, blazing, roaring, howling, scratching, whining and –

“D-do you hear that?”

“Hmm?” is the responsive noise he gets out of Viktor – he’s a bit too occupied lavishing attention against Yuuri’s collarbone, sneaking lower, to probably have processed what Yuuri’d just said.

It’s difficult, but Yuuri tries to focus – he strains his ears, turning out the crazy rhythm-less _clap-clap-clap_ of his own heartbeat, the obscene sounds of Viktor’s mouth against his skin. There’s…definitely something, a repetitive sound, _crunch-crunch-crunch_ in the background, something pointy scraping against something solid and wooden, and then there’s another noise, one Yuuri’d know anywhere and –

“I think Makkachin wants to come in.”

As though he’s realised, with his ultra-sensitive-borderline-telepathic-doggy-senses, that his presence has been acknowledged, Makkachin issues a low, plaintive yowl, distant and a bit distorted from beyond the door.

Viktor pauses in his actions, and Yuuri peeks down, chin touching the base of his neck as he tries to see Viktor’s glazed over eyes and rapid blinking, trying to focus.

In the stillness that follows, the scratching and whimpering from outside the door Yuuri doesn’t even remember closing sounds more pronounced.

“He – he was supposed to be sleeping,” Viktor huffs – he’s out of the breath, voice a croaky mess, and it makes Yuuri tighten up in all the most deliciously wrong ways.

“He’s…clearly not?” Yuuri laughs, a little. There’s a thud, tiny poodle paws thumping against the door. Another whimper, “We have to let him in.”

The look Viktor gives him is positively _pained._

“But – “ he screws up his face, at a lack of words, and then pushes his hips into Yuuri’s to prove a point; now _Yuuri’s_ the one letting out a whimper, and it’s helplessly needy.

Valiantly trying to ignore the crippling yearning clawing deep inside of his gut, Yuuri tries to see it logically. Makkachin’s timing meant they’d been able to stop before things got any further, because as Yuuri is well aware, if they _had_ , it’d just have snowballed from there – and as gratifying as it doubtless would have _been_ , neither of them would have been the better for it when their alarms started clamouring and they’d have to wrench their half-dead selves out of bed in just a few _hours_ for an agonisingly packed day ahead _._

“Come on, get off,” he shoves at Viktor, tone defeated. Viktor doesn’t budge.

Makkachin continues to yowl.

“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri urges.

“If we ignore him, maybe he’ll go away.” Viktor doesn’t look like even _he_ believes what he’s saying – Makkachin is literally the neediest, most attention-craving animal Yuuri’s ever encountered.

“I don’t think so,” he refutes, nudging his glasses back into place, “we should let him in, or else he’ll be out there crying all night.”

He knows it works – as annoyed at being so anticlimactically thwarted as Viktor visibly _is,_ he adores Makkachin to bits. It’d only been a matter of time before he surrendered.

Still, it’s kind of bittersweet when he heaves a belaboured sigh, grunting as he rolls off of Yuuri and gripes, “Fine, let him in then.”

Yuuri obliges, biting the inside of his cheek to hide a grin. He’s just managed to hoist his – still sensitive – body upright, swinging his legs off the side of the bed, when he hears Viktor mutter, “Is this what it’s gonna be like when we have children?”

It shouldn’t affect him the way it does – this is a discussion that’s been broached a couple of times already, by family, by friends, by Phichit who’d insisted on wanting to be godfather – but it’s not something either of them have really discussed with each other. Not yet, at least. Given how hectic and all-over-the-place their lives are now, juggling careers that require them speeding across the globe at a moment’s notice and living like modern-day nomads, there are times when they don’t even have the freedom to be a couple – let alone anywhere near qualified for the responsibility of being parents.

Still…Yuuri can’t deny that just the idea of Viktor _thinking_ about it, wanting to have something like that with him, to _share_ that, makes a heady warmth flood all the way to the tips of his toes.

“Excuse me? Makkachin _is_ my child,” he retorts, playfully offended, as he makes his way to the door – he pauses to grab his shirt first, because yes, Makkachin is not likely to care or mind his state of undress, but _still_. He hears Viktor snort as he pulls the door open, before a mini tornado of fur and fluff barges into the room and torpedoes straight over to the bed, pouncing on Viktor.

As Yuuri ducks out to whip together his dad’s failproof anti-hangover antidote for Viktor, he hears his fiancé grumbling, “I can’t believe you cockblocked Daddy. Are you happy with yourself?” and the following, enthusiastically affirmative _Boof!_ from Makkachin, and breaks out into silent giggles.

***

There’s just enough light managing to get through the curtains for Yuuri to tell that it isn’t still night – but it certainly isn’t morning yet, and it takes him a while to fully grasp just what’d woken him up at this ungodly hour.

The familiar trill of the Skype tone pierces through what lingers of sleep.

“Viktor?” he mumbles, voice rough – he drops the phone into his lap a moment to fumble around for the lamp switch, and then his glasses, free hand rubbing at his eyes. He peeks, short-sighted, at the time at the corner of his phone-screen, trying to mentally calculate the time difference between Russia and Japan. “It’s almost midnight, why aren’t you sleeping?”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” he hears the drawl, the slow, dragged-out syllables, and immediately _knows_.

“You’ve been drinking,” he says, more awake – he doesn’t mean for it to sound so accusatory, but it _is._

The silence from Viktor’s end is telling.

“Viktor, _why,_ ” Yuuri scolds, exasperated – he doesn’t _enjoy_ having to chide his fiancé when they’re so far apart, and he can’t make it up to him afterwards, but sometimes he really worries – he doesn’t like thinking of Viktor drinking himself under the table to the point he passes out in a bar or on the street or forgetting where he lives when he’s by himself, and considering how bad it can get sometimes he doesn’t think he’s overreacting either, “You’re going to turn into a drunkard like this, you know that?”

There’s still no response, so Yuuri scoots closer to the lamplight, trying to get a better view of the square on his screen where Viktor’s supposed to be. It’s hard, because clearly, Viktor’d foregone turning the lights on.

There’s still _enough_ light though, probably from the screen of his phone, for Yuuri to see that he’s pouting.

It doesn’t take him much to figure out why.

“Viktor…ah. I’m – sorry,” he’s not entirely dishonest about this – the belated sting of realising he’d foregone the _hellos_ and _how are you_ s makes him contrite, “I didn’t mean to be naggy –“

Viktor makes a petulant sound. Yuuri gets defensive.

“It’s just – I worry! There’s no one to look after you at home when you drink like that, what if something happens?” Intuitively aware that this argument isn’t going to have much effect, Yuuri pre-emptively adds, “Besides, did you know alcohol can make you age faster?”

This gets the intended response.

“ _What?!”_

“Yeah, if you drink too much,” Yuuri continues with what he thinks is at least partly pseudo factual; at least he’s got Viktor’s attention, “You can get a beer belly and your liver can get all messed up and…um, it affects your skin. And your hair!”

He waits for it to sink in. He watches as Viktor goes from mildly panicked to abjectly disgruntled.

“ _Well, it’s YOUR fault.”_

“ _Mine?_ I made _sure_ there was no beer or anything at home before I left, I did – “

_“ – nothere.”_

“ – what?”

“ _Because you’re not here!”_ Viktor snaps, peeved, one eye shrouded by his silvery-soft hair, the other bright and sharp even over the lengths of wire and plethora of bandwidth they’re transmitting over. It reminds Yuuri, strikingly, of the time he’d told Viktor he would retire, after winning gold.

It tugs at his heart in just the same way.

“Viktor – “

“ _I thought it would make me feel better,_ ” Viktor is complaining, now, grumpy and gripping what most certainly is a beer-can, and it starts to make sense to Yuuri, the weirdly timed call, the drunkenness. “ _…it made me feel worse.”_

Yuuri gets it, he _gets_ it – but. He decides to be a little selfish anyway.

He misses Viktor too.

“Why?” he asks, softly, fully knowing the answer.

“ _Because you’re not_ here.” Now Viktor’s the one accusing _him_ , and he’s not apologetic about it. “ _I can’t hug you or hold you and I_ hate _it.”_

It’s petty and childish and so unlike the standards of sophistication and flawless perfection he’d once imagined Viktor to embody, and it makes Yuuri’s heart ache.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and he _means_ it – it’s not Viktor’s fault he’s bereft of the senses he needs to act his age right now, and Yuuri’s a bit conflicted over whether or not he minds, and whether or not he should, “But you know how it is right? I had to get my passport renewed, and the visas…”

Viktor makes another unhappy sound.

And Yuuri relates. He really does. There’s a hell of a lot of red tape and paperwork involved, a lot more than either of them had anticipated, when it came to this business of work permits and passports and dual citizenships and clearances, expiry dates and renewals and a host of tests and paper-pushing, and yeah, it’s not conducive to the agenda of lovers Yurio keeps accusing of being stuck to each other’s sides – and it also doesn’t mean either of them have to like it.

So Yuuri makes soft, comforting sounds, and promises Viktor that he’ll be home soon, and he needs Viktor to not drink irresponsibly when he’s not around, and to go make himself some lemon water if he can, and _I love you, Take care of yourself, I love you, I’ll be home before you know it – yes, yes, I promise._

***

He wakes to moist breath fanning against a shoulder that was definitely not bared when he’d dozed off, and teeth making marks against his skin.

“ _Hmnn,_ woah, what,” he mumbles – there’s a sharp sting to his nape that makes him whine low in his throat, “ _Hey_.”

Viktor, oblivious to his befuddlement, murmurs, “Still jetlagged?”

Yuuri honestly can’t tell. His muscles feel rubbery from exhaustion and lack of rest, but there’s a niggling itch underneath it all that he’s getting increasingly conscious of and –

It probably has something to do with the hand yanking the collar of his shirt, stretching the fabric, baring skin.

“ _Oi_ , what are you doing,” he admonishes, mild – when it doesn’t deter Viktor, Yuuri demands, “…were you drinking?”

This gets Viktor to stop. He hefts himself up on to his palms, resting his weight on his elbows. He stares at Yuuri in affront. “What do you take me for?!”

Yurio’s fallback nickname of _Drunk old geezer_ pops to mind, but Yuuri pushes it away. “It’s just that…you tend to get really. Um. Physical. When you’re drunk,” he explains, slightly sheepish – he wonders if he’s going to get into trouble for this. Lately Viktor’s been pretty touchy about _any_ comment even remotely suggesting he’s acting – well, older.

In the face of Viktor’s unamused stare, Yuuri is compelled to stutter an apology, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to say you’ve got a drinking problem or –“

“That’s not it,” Viktor cuts him off, still frowning.

Yuuri, unsure and brain addled with sleep and tiredness and the closeness he’d missed with Viktor, being away for him for so long, quizzes, cautious, “Um…then what - ?”

Viktor clicks his tongue, shakes his head. “For your information,” he says, as he starts to lower his weight back on to Yuuri – deprived of him for so long, Yuuri can’t help the tiny gasp that floats out of his mouth as they press into each other, melding, heat and flesh, soft and hard, “I happen to want to touch you _all_ the time…in case you didn’t notice from all those pictures going viral.”

“Um - !”

“But,” Viktor contends, leaning in close, eyes intent and fixed on Yuuri’s mouth, and Yuuri has to force himself not to lick his suddenly-unbearably-dry lips, “I guess I…hmm.” He leans in, pecks, _bites_ – Yuuri squeals, and it makes Viktor grin, crooked. “I guess…I don’t control it so well when I’m drunk.”

And he retreats, just a bit, leaving Yuuri breathless, hyper-charged and dazed – hovers, with a crafty little smile, and adds, “Though I suppose…I was also hoping you’d be a bit more _daring,_ if you thought you could take advantage of me.”

His just chuckles, deep-throated and roughish, when this gets a scandalised squawk out of Yuuri, multiple accusations of him being a pervert, and a batting arm which gets pinned behind his head, and yeah. Yeah, it doesn’t matter if Viktor’s drunk, or sober, suave or spectacularly juvenile.

He can’t get enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ...i don't even know i just hope it wasn't OOC


End file.
